


Wash Me Clean

by IrishWitch58



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishWitch58/pseuds/IrishWitch58
Summary: Bond returns after a mission and needs to intervene in the aftermath of a shooting.





	Wash Me Clean

Heathrow was the usual insane mix of business travelers, families, foreign tourists and airline and security personnel. The crowds filled the terminal with an ambient level of noise comprised of hundreds of individual conversations. Bond couldn't be arsed to pay any attention, he was just tired. He was grateful the mission he was coming off was not terribly complex. Not a single dead body in sight. A simple data retrieval and the only reason he had been sent was that he was familiar with the location and with the subject of the data. He could ascertain immediately that he had the correct information. He had no luggage except a small carry on and headed for the cab stand. He was going to pick up his own car at his flat and then head to MI6. Debriefing was necessary but in the last six months it had become a pleasure. 

Six months ago he had limped into Q branch, bruised and ready for a drink and a long sleep. Q glared and pointed at the chair opposite the desk. “Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered in a waspish tone. “I suppose it's too much to hope for that you have any of my tech.” Bond said nothing as he handed over the equipment one piece at a time. Shockingly it was all there, if a bit less than factory pristine. Q inventoried each piece and then said, “So, are you going to medical or home with me?”

Bond looked up from where he was contemplating a possibly broken finger. “Pardon?” He kept his tone carefully neutral.

“Don't you think it's time we stop dancing around each other? I'm rather tired of it. You've been hinting for long enough. Do you want to fuck or not?” Q looked at him pointedly, green eyes sharp and assessing.

Bond took a moment to consider how best to answer. “Is there a reason you're asking now?”

Q looked at him with an unreadable expression. “Will a reason alter your decision?”

“Not at all. Merely curious. I've been expressing my interest for some time. I was just wondering whether anything had changed.” Bond actually found it a bit troublesome. He could usually suss out personal motivations. This time he had no clue what had tipped the balance. Unless it was just a case of unrequited lust on Q's part. That didn't seem very likely when the man never seemed to make any decision haphazardly. 

“Good. I'll be done here in a moment. Would you care to drive?” Bond watched still bemused as Q completed his day's work and closed his programs as though he were merely heading home as he usually did. No sign of excitement. Completely controlled in a way that made Bond long to crack the composure and see what was underneath.

The short trip to Q's small townhouse was quiet except for Q giving concise directions. He opened the door and invited Bond to come in. And the world shifted a bit on it's axis sometime that night. Q was energetic, agile and demanding. He was neither naive nor inexperienced and reveled in everything Bond could give him. He howled when he came and Bond hoped the walls were soundproofed for the sake of the neighbors. He then calmly reorganized the bedding and told Bond he could stay if he liked. 

The past six months were entertaining and puzzling in equal measure. Q was brilliant and sarcastic, had wonderful taste in takeaway and films, and fucked like a mink. Bond spent most of his leave time with the genius. But he was also convinced there was something he wasn't getting, something about Q, and whatever this was between them that had developed into a relationship. Bond had never done relationships well or at all. And now he found himself bored with even the thought of seeking out other companionship. Missions still required the odd seduction but he found these mechanical and distasteful. He found himself comparing everyone else to Q and finding them lacking in ways he had never appreciated before.

And Q never pushed for anything more. In six months he had never said anything that led Bond to believe he wanted some level of commitment. There was never an assumption, just a quietly voiced invitation couched in completely professional language after the first time. A year ago, or even six months ago, Bond would have said this was the perfect way to conduct things. Both of them enjoyed the sex and neither of them ever treated it as anything but physical. And that was part of the problem. Suddenly, Bond was realizing more was something he wanted. He wanted Q to be his in more ways than just the physical. And wasn't that a bizarre turn of events?

The cab dropped him at his flat and he put the carry on in the bedroom and made his way to his current car. He patted the inside pocket that contained the small drive full of information Q branch would parse for anything useful. He parked in the employee garage and waved at the guard on the entrance there and was surprised when he was stopped and had his ID checked. “Sorry, sir. Just that after this morning we're being a lot more careful.”

“What happened? I just got back.” Bond felt himself shift back to mission footing, remembering another return to a devastated MI6.

“Oh, some problem at the main entrance. Apparently there was some shooting. All dealt with but security footing is increased until the whole thing is analyzed.” The guard had barely finished speaking as Bond moved smoothly to the lift. He exited at the executive level and sought out the one person who might have the complete story. Eve Monnypenny was the repository of every bit of news and gossip in the building. As he approached her desk, he felt the nagging worry increase. She looked up at him and quickly looked away. He got the definite impression she had information he wasn't going to like. 

“Before you say or do anything, he's physically fine,” Eve said, tapping a few keys on the laptop. 

“Who's fine?” Bond felt a sudden icy chill crawl up his spine.

“Q,” Eve said succinctly. She turned the laptop around and hit play on a video. Bond recognized the feed from the main entrance. Eve provided commentary to the playback which had no audio. “Becca is one of the low level Q branch techs. Her ex is apparently violent and, when he was convicted and sent up for assault, she got a restraining order. He just got out.” On the screen a tall woman with long dark braids was seen running to the ID kiosk, scanning her badge and pushing through. As she did so, a man in a leather jacket came tearing in through the glass doors. The security guard was heading toward him when the man produced a shotgun and fired both barrels at the guard who collapsed in a welter of blood. Becca stood open mouthed and terrified, Bond imagined she must be screaming her head off. The man approached, jumped the entry turnstile and produced a hunting knife, grabbed the terrified woman and held the knife to her throat. “At this point, Q was just coming in. He is, of course, armed but apparently couldn't see a way to take a shot without Becca being hurt.” Bond watched as Q circled the two figures, his sidearm held low and his eyes flicking alertly back and forth to assess possibilities for ending the situation. He could also see the attacker was at the end of his rope, his arm tense and the knife already scoring skin on Becca's throat. Q raised the Beretta, his preferred sidearm, and fired once, the shot striking the marble column just behind the pair, making the attacker jump. Becca managed to sink her teeth into her captor's arm and ducked away as Q lunged in. He and the other man grappled for a moment or two more as Becca scrambled for the alarms. As guards began to pour in, there was the sharp report of the Beretta and both men collapsed. Even having heard Eve's earlier assurance, Bond found it hard to breathe. He watched as the guards converged, the attacker dead, his head a mass of shattered bone and bloody tissue. Q sat numbly, appeared to answer a few questions and followed two of the guards out.

“What happened after?” Bond asked, voice low and controlled.

“The first guard may make it, vest you know, but he's lost an eye. Becca is shocky. They sedated her and cleaned up her neck. Q was uninjured. He asked to return to his branch after MIT spoke to him and medical released him.” Eve was looking at the screen, the video paused on a frame of Q covered in a spatter of blood and brain, his glasses fouled with the stuff and his expression utterly stiff and so unlike the man he looked like a screen version of a zombie. 

“Where is he now?” Bond asked, still controlled but inwardly raging that his Q had been put through this and that medical hadn't detained him, hell, sedated him.

“He went back to branch but R says he didn't stay and security says he must still be in the building. Talk to R. You can find him. He needs someone who understands.” Eve smiled sadly and returned to her work. Bond set out on his self designated mission.

R was conferring with the head of building security but broke off to herd Bond into a quiet corner. “Please find him. I can't get away from here. It's been too chaotic. He came down from medical, covered in gore and grabbed a bag from his office. Just said he needed to clean up a bit. His eyes...” she closed her own for a second, “I see new agents come in from bad missions like that.” Bond nodded and handed off the data from his mission as an afterthought.

Bond let himself into Q's office and studied it carefully. The only trace of the day's events was a set of brownish fingerprints on the door of a cupboard where Q kept extra clothes. Bond used a paper towel from the washstand to clear them away. He didn't need Q finding them when he came back in. He thought he knew where the man had gone. There was a disused locker area in a back corridor. It was supposed to have been decommissioned but Q had requested it be kept functional for emergencies when branch members might have to stay over. It was closer than the shower and lockers in the gym upstairs and almost everyone else had forgotten about it. Bond made his way, silently down the dimly illuminated corridors. The area behind Q branch was a warren of passages, some terminating in dead ends, others wrapping around like a puzzle. It was obvious that the structures were organic in the sense that new tunnels had been added as needed without real forethought and many were subsequently abandoned. He was looking for signs of use. Most of the old corridors had a layer of dust on the floor. He ignored any of the ones where the dust lay undisturbed. The ones that were used, had an area down the middle where feet had cleared the floor, pushing the dust to the sides. He investigated each of these, working methodically and marking the junctions with a quick score of his knife on the wall at eye level. He eventually found himself in a space where the lights were actually all on, although still flickering, and the old linoleum underfoot was swept almost clean. Insulated pipes ran along at head height and when he put a hand to one, he felt the vibration of water moving through. There were closed doors at intervals but one at the far end was open with a light showing around the edge. He advanced silently and nudged the door. The pervasive damp of the tunnels was more noticeable here. Ranks of industrial green lockers and old wooden benches stood in rows. A series of toilet stalls occupied the near wall and the one at right angles had sinks with spotty mirrors. The tile underfoot was old but clean. Apparently maintenance was aware of this space. He followed the sounds of spattering water to the back of the room. A tiled wall held rows of shelves with towels folded neatly and there was a linen service hamper at the corner into the showers. On the bench immediately opposite was a small green duffel. Bond slid out of his suit jacket and left it and his tie folded over the bench next to the bag.

He saw the shoes first, Q's carefully polished oxfords, the laces tangled as if he's just shoved them off and one lying on it's side. The grey cardigan, one Bond actually liked, was turned half inside out, brownish red stains soaked into it. Bond winced. The shirt was almost as bad, buttons hanging by threads and Bond imagined Q clawing it off in his haste to get the thing away from his skin. The remainder of the clothes were in a heap outside the one occupied shower stall. Q was inside, water pouring over him and steam fogging the surfaces. The water was almost too hot, Q's skin pinking under it. He didn't notice he wasn't alone, leaning into the spray and sobbing in ugly hitching gasps and intermittently scrubbing at his hair and face. Bond stepped closer, the spray wetting him through until his shirt clung to his skin. “Q,” he said in a gentle voice.

Q spun, mouth open in alarm, and put out one hand flat against the wall next to him. Bond advanced with purpose, cupping Q's jaw and pressing a harsh kiss to his open mouth. Teeth and tongues clashing, the water sheeting over them, Q struggled, first to get free, and then to get closer, tension ebbing in slow degrees as Bond held him to the kiss, swallowing every sobbed protest until Q was passive and quiet in his arms. “Still don't feel clean?” he asked as he slid his mouth to Q's ear. Unable to say anything, Q just shook his head. Bond pulled back, holding his face and making sure he could see every expression in the green eyes. “I'll make sure you're clean. Trust me.” He picked up the soap, lathering it slowly and spreading it over every bit of skin, turning Q under the spray, layering kisses on the clean areas and reassuring with touch. He finished with the shampoo he found on the stall partition, spending time to work the lather through every strand and then adding conditioner with equal care. 

He almost didn't hear when Q finally spoke, his voice a faint whisper that sounded utterly unlike his normal confident tones. “You don't have to do this. I'm sorry I'm not coping better.” He attempted to pull away and Bond reeled him back in. “You're my lover. I have every right to take care of you.” 

“But we've never...I mean, it was just sex.” Q sounded, if that were possible, more miserable. 

“And it took me until just now to put the pieces together. You never offered anything emotional because you thought I didn't want it.” As he spoke, Bond was turning off the taps and hauling Q out to the locker area. “Truth to tell, I was always puzzled about that first time. You hinted around a reason but just let me wonder. You wanted a relationship and were willing to settle for an occasional fuck. Or did you think that I would just satisfy my curiosity that one night? For a genius, you're a bit slow. I kept coming back. Every mission. Every time. You do realize that for six months you've been the only company I wanted?” Bond was scrubbing at Q's skin with the dry towels and Q meekly followed his unspoken directions to turn or lift a foot. “So you thought I wouldn't want anything to do with the emotional fallout of you shooting that bastard. I wonder, did you intend to just get yourself on a tight enough leash that I would think nothing was wrong?” Q could only hang his head and look guilty. Bond began helping him dress. “By the way, that was an amazing thing you did. Becca is alive because of you. Did you vomit?”

The question seemed completely random. Caught by surprise, Q just answered, “No. I'm rather surprised I didn't. You have no idea how many times I brushed my teeth.”

Bond gave him a predator's grin and ruffled his still wet hair. “Then you're already doing better that two thirds of the field agents their first time. Vomiting is quite common on close quarter kills. I believe the current 005 actually vomited on the actual corpse. We still bring that up at holiday parties.” Q now had dry clean clothes and Bond looked around at the trail of clothing. “Glasses?” he asked.

Q closed his eyes. “I can't put those back on. They were...”

Bond remembered the image on the video, the lenses spattered with thick clots of blood and tissue. He looked a little further and found the frames peeking out from under the discarded cardigan. “Are you done with the toothbrush?” Q nodded and handed it over. Bond stepped to the sinks and ran the taps hot, using the toothbrush to clean the hinges and the edges of the frames that met the lenses. He finished off with a good helping of soapy water and held the glasses up to the light, scrutinizing carefully. He walked back and placed the clean glasses on Q's face. 

“Thank you doesn't seem adequate,” Q said musingly. 

Bond snorted, grasping a bony elbow and hauling Q to his feet and back into his arms. “You won't be thanking me when I get around to scolding you for taking a risk like that. There were at least three other ways to take him out with less risk to your very valuable hide and we are going to practice all of them in the gym.” He kissed Q again and stepped back. “And you owe me for this,” he waved a hand at his suit trousers and shirt. “My cleaners are going to have fits.”

Q finally managed a small smile. “I'll buy you a new one.”

**Author's Note:**

> On the 00Q facebook group, I mentioned I had been very taken with a piece of artwork. I messaged the artist to ask if I could link it here but did not receive a response. The artist is LPS1 on Tumblr so you may want to take a look at their lovely art blog.
> 
> This story caused me a lot more stress than you'd think. I rewrote the last quarter about five times before it struck the right chord with me. Hope you all enjoy.


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